Every Deadly Sin

by D M Greenwood

  She read the obituary with pleasure. She remembered Tussock. He’d come down to Cheltenham in her last year to present the prizes. The obituary, she felt, captured the man in every bogus nuance; a pretend scholar, an imitation gentleman, a clerical counterpart of Shaw; jaunty, claiming, an enamoured spectator of his own surprising success. The Church, which so often in its upper echelons provides security for the only lightly endowed, had done well by Tusk. He had hit the moment and, not without skill, had adapted his person to the Church’s needs. There had been a time when he was scarcely ever off the radio or television, pontificating on this and that. Many among the clergy had apparently felt that he could understand the contemporary world and interpret it to them. Theodora, as the eighth generation of her family in clerical (albeit, in her case, deacons’) orders, had noticed that the Church very often needs to have its own version of whatever the secular world is worshipping at any given moment. Tusk had fitted the bill for the age of the instant expert. He had been able to reassure clergy that they too could produce, in response to modern agendas, modern thinkers who were also practical men of the world. If it turned out that in the process of interpretation the great spiritual truths of Christianity had been lost or deformed and all that remained was rhetoric or journalism, by the time that was generally apparent, the audience was, as often as not, dead – like Tusk.

  Theodora raised her eyes from the letter and gazed round the dining-hall. She was here for a week to earn a little spare cash by teaching at the Open University summer school. As the regular students flooded out for the vacation, the Open University moved in and swiftly remade the institution in its own energetic image. Blueand- white notices flaunting the OU logo directed the temporary staff to one set of facilities and temporary students to another. People walked fast and talked hard as though they had long been denied that delight. Students had this one week in a year’s study to sample the pleasures of residence. They were, most of them, determined to wring the last drop from the experience. Theodora, on leave from her curacy in a South London parish, loved the buzz, the concentration, the eager intellectual need and diversity of the students. Cynicism was absent, engagement apparent on all sides. As she’d collected her toast and coffee from the servery, she’d over-heard two ladies of advanced years discussing with equal knowledge and no distinction in tone the quality of the bacon and the success of Henry James’s narrative techniques. Theodora loved them deeply.

  The university building in which they were located for this year’s effort resembled a lake dwellers’ settlement. Colleges, a library and an administrative block had been constructed on an imperfectly drained marsh connected by a string of long shallow lakes. The buildings were without distinction, flimsy and beginning to corrode in vital places now, thirty years after their erection. But the idiosyncrasy of the site remained and charmed. Mallard of immense girth with the odd smiling Aylesbury decorated the lakes. Stepping-stones sunk in the water connecting the back doors of the colleges provided a tiny adventure when seeking access to classes. There was a toyishness, a humour almost, about the settlement which communicated itself both to staff (porters were civil) and students. For the last two years Theodora had done a week here in the summer, teaching one of the philosophy courses. She always enjoyed it. On this her first morning, however, the wind was battering at the wall of glass which formed on one side of the dining-hall, tossing rain and spray from the fountain in the middle of the largest lake. Wherever her first class was (she had yet to find out where that might be) she would get wet going to it.

  ‘It’s going to be wet.’

  Theodora looked across at the young man, surprised to find him still there.

  ‘I’ve got an umbrella if you’d care to share it.’ His accent, she noticed, was northern without being overbearingly so.

  Theodora peered at the label on the young man’s anorak. She could just make out the name. ‘Guy Tussock.’

  ‘Are we going in the same direction?’ Theodora enquired.

  ‘I’m sure I am,’ answered the young man courteously.

  CHAPTER TWO

  St Sylvan’s at Rest

  The shrine of St Sylvan at Rest in North Yorkshire is a comparatively recent addition to the pilgrimage places of the Anglican communion. It was discovered in the 1930s in the days before the Second World War. It became and has remained a place of pilgrimage for the discerning for half a century.

  The discovery and sponsoring of the shrine was the work of a remarkable man. The Reverend Augustine Bellaire was not perhaps entirely orthodox in every respect. Certainly he allowed himself to invent tradition when he felt the greater good was so served. In his own person too there was flamboyance which some found difficult to tolerate. His taste in clerical dress ran to the colourful and, his enemies had it, popish. He was invariably accompanied by a pair of large deer-hounds which went with him into chapel at St Sylvan’s and slept under the pulpit. He had a fine tenor voice and was inclined to sing the entire liturgy unaided and unaccompanied. As age advanced he became unpredictable and suffered, it was observed, from violent swings of mood. He would allow no vehicles within two miles of St Sylvan’s and there was neither television, wireless nor newspapers in the guest-house. He died in 1988 but his spirit hovered yet, so his friends asserted, over the place he had loved.

  What he did not invent, since it is recorded in Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum, was the legend of St Sylvan himself. The saint, Bede tells us, was originally a Roman Army officer, Titus Sylvanus Aurelianus, hailing from the region we now think of as Poland. He served in the cavalry attached to the Ninth Legion stationed, in AD 400, at Eboracum, later, of course, York. In the course of a deer hunt Sylvanus’s closest comrade was killed by an arrow shot from the bow of a fellow huntsman. Whilst mourning his loss, Sylvanus became acquainted with the Christian faith which held out the promise of resurrection and a future life. Much attracted by this teaching and reassured thereby that he would meet his friend in a nobler and more glorious sphere, he converted to the faith and was baptised in the baptistry of St Peter’s York in 403.

  Thus far the historian. Legend takes up the narrative. Sylvanus felt his previous martial calling to be incompatible with his new faith. He resigned his commission and took land near Rest, Castra Renastarum, forty miles east of York, in country well known for the excellence of its hunting forests. There he lived peacably enough in those troubled times which followed the withdrawal of the Roman Army from Britain, farming his acres like many another until the Pictish invasion of 435. In that year, confronted one warm July night by an enemy raiding party, he was forced once more to take up the sword to defend his house and family. Though he fought with his ancient courage, as the story has it, in the end the pagan horde prevailed. He saw his house and barns torched and witnessed the slaughter of his wife and sons. He himself was captured and, even as he invoked the power of Christ and his saints, flung into his own well where he died with the Saviour’s name upon his lips. Whether he was ever regularly canonised is obscure. Local pride, however, chose to bestow the style of saint upon him. For a thousand years he was honoured in folklore. His well, a place of modest pilgrimage, was yearly dressed on the day of his martrydom, 25 July, by the neighbouring villagers with the locally named herb-Sylvane, a botanical relation of herb-Robert, which flourished in the surrounding woodland. The Reformation put an end to such pieties and for another four hundred years his name was recorded only on maps in the form of St Sylvan’s well. Later still even the exact location of the well was lost to human knowledge.

  In the late summer of 1937, however, Augustine Bellaire, then a young undergraduate fresh from his studies at Oxford and much inspired by stories of the English saints and martyrs retailed to him by his Anglo-Catholic tutors, took it into his head to seek out the site of the ancient martyrdom of St Sylvan. Augustine was staying at the time at Broadcourt, the manor of Sir Lucius Broad, on whose land the putative well of St Sylvan stood. It was, in truth, no great task of
scholarship to retrieve from the records in Sir Lucius’s library the probable location of the well. Accordingly one hot July morning after a night of heavy rain, Augustine strode out early, a panama hat upon his head, his Oxford bags flapping, his Lancing first eleven tie holding them up, a canvas knapsack on his shoulder, in the direction in which his researches had indicated the well might be found.

  In high hopes and at a swinging pace he struck out along a rutted sheep track between thyme-covered banks towards the higher woodland in which he expected to make his discovery. Augustine, however, was reading theology, not geography. By early afternoon he was thoroughly lost. He lay down in the shade of an oak tree to refresh himself on the ham sandwiches thoughtfully provided by his host’s housekeeper and after his repast fell, in the manner of youth, into a deep sleep. When he awoke the sun was declining and the light fading. Alarmed, not indeed for his own safety, but for the anxiety which his absence might occasion in his host, he hastened to take his bearings and retrace his steps. The appearance of a short cut lured him in the time-honoured fashion of fairytale until, at last, he found himself scrambling amidst rocks steeper than those he had hitherto encountered. It was, therefore, with relief that he raised his head from his exertions to see flickering, as it seemed not too far ahead and below him, a light which must surely betoken habitation and help. But as he slithered and stumbled downhill the ground suddenly opened at his feet. In vain did he clasp at the trunk of an attendant ilex, for, in a trice he was precipitated into a shallow chasm.

  When he recovered, he found himself standing on the brink of a pool about twenty yards across, the edges of which were banked in places with stones cut in an antique mode, closely fitting to each other without mortar. The surface of the pool was motionless, though his ear detected the sound of water splashing and bubbling close at hand, the origin of which he could not, though he looked about him, discover.

  The quietness, the solitude of the place in the gathering darkness moved him greatly. Almost as in a ritual, murmuring a grace, he knelt down, cupped his hands and drank from the water. Even as he did so, he felt a sudden cooling of the temperature. About what happened next he refused always thereafter to speak. Suffice it to say that he fell into a faint and when he came to in the warmth of the early morning sun, the first thing which his eye lighted upon was the head of a deer carved in stone surmounted by a plaque on which was inscribed in Roman capitals ‘QUI RESTITIT EI PAX DATUR’. As Augustine gazed into the calm, innocent eyes of the hind, he vowed that St Sylvan’s well, for such it must surely be, should become for others a place of refreshment and revelation as it had been for him.

  Half a century after its discovery by Bellaire, the shrine of St Sylvan, when the summer mist veiled it in early morning, looked almost respectably ancient. The small spire on top of the squat tower of the chapel could have been mediaeval. The farmhouse and its kitchen, a light from which had enticed Bellaire on the night of his discovery, had been enlarged with accommodation for pilgrims. This guesthouse, the modernity of which nothing could disguise, was modestly hidden under flowering creepers. Next to both guest-house and kitchen was a walled garden, planted to suggest a greater age than it in fact possessed, where pilgrims could walk and meditate. Thought had been taken to link buildings as well as life with the past. A path to the holy well wound from the west door of the chapel and disappeared as the terrain grew steeper. Behind the buildings the wooded hills rose in a defending circle. At this time of day (it was as yet still early in the morning) there was no traffic on the narrow road which mounted the hillside to within a couple of miles of the small paradise which Father Bellaire had created.

  In the garden Ruth Swallow surveyed the rows of broad beans. Gently she lifted a pod and rubbed her thumb down it. It came away black and sticky with fly. The sweat broke on her brow and she caught her breath as the sickness gripped her. The heat came in waves from the high stone walls. For a moment the branches of the espaliered fruit trees seemed to lurch towards her as though they would entangle her in their net. The huge mulberry tree in the centre of the garden seemed to expand to the size of a mountain and reared up as though it might fall upon her. She pushed her hands down her hips and steadied herself. She looked towards the chapel spire and made out the gilded hands of the clock. Six-thirty. They were due in twelve hours. She felt a surge of emotion, fear and hope mixed. Let the beans wait. She had had to wait.

  Inside the guest-house, in the office which looked out on the garden, Tom Bough whistled through his teeth, like an ostler, his dad always said. Tom didn’t know what an ostler was but inferred it might be some sort of musical instrument of the kind which the old man had slung up on the wall of that noisome den in which he squatted. Anyway, he didn’t care enough to ask.

  On the desk which he was dusting, was a list in computer script which bore today’s date, Saturday, 19 July. Tom ran his eye down it. The Revd Canon H. Beagle. He’d heard his dad mention him. He’d been before. Some time ago though. Ex-athlete, big fellow with arthritis. The Revd T. Braithwaite. Who was he? Familiar name but couldn’t place him. Mr and Mrs V. Clutton Brock. Didn’t know them either. Mrs Lemming. Lemming, that would be Norman’s wife or perhaps his widow. Terrible little man, Norman Lemming, pal of Tusk’s. Tunbridge Wells somewhere. Mr Guy Tussock. Tussock, now that was a well-known name. So he’d decided to come, had he?

  In two parallel columns were the room numbers of the guests and their dietary requirements. Beagle and Braithwaite both had an A beside them to betoken that they ate anything. Mr Guy Tussock was awarded a VFE for vegetarian who ate fish and eggs. Mr Clutton Brock had a G beside him which meant gluten free (he’d be a right pain). Mrs C.B. was a V for vegan, no fish or eggs. Beside Mrs Lemming nothing was recorded. At the bottom of the page after the word ‘Director’ had been pencilled in the Revd A. Bootle. They must be middle-of-the-roaders then, neither high- nor low-Church if Angus was in charge of them. Either that or he was the only one they could get to come in. Which was likely enough in the present state of play.

  Tom lifted the page of the flimsy paper taking care that his dirty thumb should leave no trace on its surface and glanced at the list underneath. It bore the date of the next day, Sunday the twentieth. Yes, there it was, the second, non-residential party, just as Ruth had said. The Rt. Revd Francis Peake, the Ven. Jonathan Gosh and the Revd the Hon. Martha Broad. All had As beside them. Capable of devouring any flesh, Ruth had said. Come to gobble us up, they have. So it wouldn’t be long now before they knew their fate, whether they were to live or die.

  In the distance he heard a door open. He took his eye off the list and slowly polished his way round the desk. Brass pen tray to the left, dust; brass pen tray to the right, dust. Brass crucifix, ditto. He resumed his hissing as a commentary on his actions. His eye followed his hand. His words preceded his thoughts. Let them come, he muttered to himself. He raised his eyes to the wall behind the desk. ‘They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength.’ Isaiah. Well, he thought, we shall see. I’ve done a lot of waiting after all. Time my strength was renewed.

  ‘Where are we?’ Mrs Lemming enquired fretfully.

  The only answer was the clash of the minibus’s gears and the clanking of the exhaust pipe against its undercarriage, as it ground its way through the late afternoon football traffic of the first of the pre-season friendlies. They seemed to have made no progress for hours. Mrs Lemming, on the front seat behind the driver, bumped and swayed on the sagging upholstery. It was possible the driver hadn’t heard her. It was possible he did not know. Perhaps he simply didn’t think she was worth answering. Mrs Lemming had often evoked the latter response. She knew she wasn’t worth bothering with; Norman had taught her. I’d hoped for better, she thought. It’s got to be better than this.

  The only other passengers were a middle-aged couple they had picked up at Bradford Station. They sat on the back seat barricaded behind their luggage which was plentiful, in matching tartan suitcases of various sizes. Propped o
n the seat in front of them was an enormous black case the shape of a cello. Whenever the bus changed gear it bucked forward as though it had a life of its own. They had spoken no word either to her or to each other as they had lurched and stumbled down the centre gangway.

  Were they stunned from the train journey? Mrs Lemming wondered. She herself had made Doncaster in reasonably good order from Tunbridge Wells an hour ahead of them. She had spotted the bus marked ‘St Sylvan’s at Rest’ in hand-painted blue letters on the flaking white paint and deposited her own more modest collection of bags on the rack above her seat. On the bench beside her she propped the easel which she had packed so carefully and so surreptitiously. Even so, she hadn’t escaped Norman’s notice. ‘A pilgrimage, a retreat,’ he’d said, ‘isn’t a holiday. I think you will find that St Sylvan’s … though of course without Ben …’ He’d trailed off defeated by mortality, then returned to the attack with new vigour. ‘I doubt if you’ll need that.’ But she’d stood her ground. She’d resisted in her evasive way. ‘I expect you’re right, but you never know.’ And before he could object further she had pressed it into the taxi-driver’s hands and doubled into the cab after it. There, she thought, as she hugged it to her, my pilgrimage has almost begun.

  The bus lurched forward after its considerable pause and she leaned her head against the cool dirty glass of the window. Traffic stretched as far as her eye could see through a haze of exhaust fumes hanging in the hot air. Away to the right she could just make out a signpost: ‘Leeds Central’. They were doing, like the stations of the cross, a tour of the railway stations of the West Riding. The information leaflet had said – she searched in her bag – ‘Our bus will take you from your station to St Sylvan’s.’ But it wasn’t taking them to St Sylvan’s. Anywhere but. Perhaps we’ll never get there. Perhaps we’ll just go on driving from station to station in this excruciating heat for ever. She felt near to tears.